Until Tomorrow
by preciouslittleingenue
Summary: He was the perfect gentleman, a charming, handsome young man. She was an ethereal beauty, a polite, proper, quiet young girl. A man and his little wife: adored by society, admired from afar, eternally faithful to each other. A man and his wife who lived privately, despite the magnifying glass they were under. The Comte and Comtesse...until tomorrow, that is. (Leroux verse.)


_*sigh* I sure love Raoul and Christine._

 _They sure are the purest and sweetest beans on God's Green Earth._

 _There sure is not enough fluff of these two._

 _Why is that? I'll never understand it._

 _Here, enjoy my contribution to the R/C fluff archive._

* * *

The Comtesse sighed, a smile of indifference plastered on her gorgeous porcelain visage. The old woman's voice droned on and on, echoing in the Comtesse's ear as one constant noise that never ceased. If this went on for much longer, she was certain her head would explode.

The Comtesse, however, remained ever radiant, nodding politely when necessary. Her blue eyes twinkled like the stars that hung above them outside, her golden hair tucked away with pins, a few curls framing her delicate forehead and resting at the nape of her neck. She nearly glowed with beauty. Indeed many of the men could not keep their eyes off of her. They very strongly willed themselves to, however, as the beauty was off limits. She was the Comtesse, property of the Comte. Anyone who dared touch her was certain to meet an unpleasant reprimanding.

The Comte paraded the girl around like she was the sun, the moon, the stars themselves. He introduced the girl to various social circles of his as though she were a queen greeting her loyal subjects, a glamorous diva gracing the presence of her devotees. She, however, always greeted them quietly, hardly raising her voice above a whisper. Though her guest always shouted and squealed as loud as they pleased, their grating voices and ear splitting laughs echoing in the grand ballroom. She kept her glittering diamond eyes downcast, a polite smile ever present on her lips. She's a shy thing, the guests would say. Her modest upbringing made her so, they said.

Not very much was known about the girl's past, especially her most recent past. She hardly ever spoke to begin with, and when asked about anything recent that had occurred in her life, the girl began complaining of a headache, and her husband would suddenly appear and take her in his arms, escorting her up to her chambers with the care of a mother holding its newborn babe. There were rumors among guests that she was a peasant girl, charming her way into his heart with her strange, peasant ways. Others say something rather different. It is never said out loud, never at the gatherings at the estate. It is often behind closed doors, or at other parties in which the Comte and Comtesse did not attend. Vague whisperings of the Opera, of a madman, involvement in the murder of the late Comte…all very confusing, all very strange.

The more likely story, one that is not as often scoffed at, is that she was simply a lucky mistress that stole his heart as well as his virtue. It made sense, they said, as to why the boy was so very attached to her. He practically tripped over her skirts as he followed her on her heel, like a puppy ready to pounce at any opportunity to please his master. The girl had him eating out of her hands, and there was often speculation amongst society whether she was aware of it or not. Those who believed the story of the "lucky mistress" entertained the idea that she was perfectly aware, that she taunted and teased him on purpose. Others preferred to believe that the young Comtesse was simply such a charming young woman that her little Comte could not help himself.

It was rare that the young Comte ever let the girl out of his sight. The Comtesse was almost always on his arm, her dainty gloved hands resting in the crook of his elbow as if they were crafted to fit there by the Angels themselves. They were often seen whispering to each other, too quick and too quiet for anyone to ever make it out. The Comte's eyes simply glimmered at the sound of her voice, and sometimes the Comtesse even let out a tiny giggle at their stolen words, words for only each other. The young Comtesse never giggled so in the presence of anyone but her little Comte. She laughed politely, charmingly for her guests, entertaining the idea that someone had amused her. Her bell-like laughter was something only her husband got out of her. Strange, that girl was, very strange...

Still, the Comtesse was widely admired among the aristocracy. Her charming smile and her kind eyes were inviting, and she was indeed polite. She only spoke when spoken to, and she answered very quickly, very to the point. She was the very image of what a woman should be. The men often commended the Comte for landing such a prize. Mothers often told their own girls to behave more like the Comtesse. The young women were always showering her with praise, desperate for her to smile at them, perhaps even hear that tiny laugh, anything to acknowledge that they pleased the lovely woman.

They never noticed, though, that her smile never quite reached her eyes, and that her eyes never quite reached theirs. They never noticed the stolen glances across the room to where her husband stood with a pipe in a circle of men. They never noticed that her eyes only lit with a smile when her husband stole a glance back at her, and the two pairs of light eyes became one for a split second before they both turned their wandering gazes politely back to their guests.

At that particular moment, the Comtesse could feel her husband's gaze on her, burning into her neck, her rosy cheeks, and the golden curls that rested gently upon her skin, slipping out of the intricate up do. She thought to turn back again, to meet his eyes one moment more. Surely no one would notice. They never did...

"…don't you think?"

"Hm?" the young Comtesse snapped herself out of her thoughts, snapping her eyes back to the woman who'd been talking for what had seemed to be an eternity. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"Oh, I am so glad you agree," the older woman said delightedly. "The sooner an heir is produced, the sooner you can relax, dear."

"Oh," the Comtesse stammered, completely caught off guard. Her throat suddenly became dry, and she felt the horribly familiar flushing sensation in her neck and cheeks, betraying the cool facade she kept. If only she hadn't let her mind wander, perhaps she would have known just what she was responding to...

"Well I am sure by now you're familiar with it," the older woman said. "You are such a very good girl, I am sure you always do what you're told," she said sternly, although a knowing smile found its way to her lips. The poor young woman felt her blush deepen; she was now fully under the magnifying glass, ready to be prodded and poked by the curious investigators.

"The less you speak, the better, dear," another woman added. "It is over much sooner that way. And then once you're with child, he _has_ to leave you alone!"

The other women laughed out loud at this, and the young Comtesse took the opportunity to throw a desperate look in her husband's direction. The laughter subsided and the conversation continued down its disastrous path, and just when the Comtesse thought all hope was lost, the music changed from light background music to a lovely waltz. A throng of men suddenly approached the dining table that they were sitting at and all conversation immediately ceased. Each woman assumed their polite smiles and rose from their seats to join their husbands for the dance.

The Comte bowed gracefully to his beloved wife, and her smile once again reached her eyes as his lips came in contact with her lace-gloved hand. She rose to her feet and allowed him to guide her to the center of the room where the other couples were dancing. Husbands and wives were now lightly chatting as they danced, or stiffly staring at each other, saying nothing at all. The Comtesse closed the space between her and her husband, allowing their noses to become inches away from each other.

"Save me," she whispered, so quiet it was nearly silent. If the Comte had not seen her mouth those very words so many times, he would have had to ask her to repeat herself. He nodded once, and she beamed up at him, a brighter smile than anyone had seen that night.

They each briefly glanced over their shoulders to be sure they weren't being watched, and they expertly wove their way through the dancers, the girl's ridiculously large skirts nearly ruining their exit. They finally escaped the ballroom, and a feeling of exhilaration, of thrill rose in both of their chests. The young Comte looked into his wife's eyes, his own eyes wild with recklessness.

He seized her delicate hand. "Let's get away, Christine."

Christine let loose a giggle, the beautiful sound echoing through the massive halls like little bells. He suddenly began to run, pulling her along behind him. They dashed around the large estate, through the halls, through the garden, and Christine was distinctly positive that he purposely took wrong turns for the simple reason that he was not ready to stop running. If she was not mistaken, there was no reason to run through the garden to get to their bedroom.

Normally, the couple loved to stroll the gardens together, but tonight, they ran the risk of meeting a guest, and Christine could hardly enjoy the gardens in a gown that was more absurd than any opera costume she'd ever worn. When they strolled the gardens, it was always late at night when the world was asleep, in their night clothes. They were both always most comfortable that way, and they decided that if no one was awake to see it, there was no shame in it.

Both of their laughter, his hearty chuckle and her boisterous giggle echoed through the halls and bounced of the walls. It was there one minute and gone the next, so fleetingly that one might have thought there were ghosts roaming the halls, teasing and frightening the inhabitants of the halls.

The laughter continued until they reached the staircase closest to their bedroom, and Raoul only released his wife's hand so that she may hike up her skirts and race up the stairs at a proper speed. They fled up the stairs and down the hall to the master bedroom. They flung themselves through the doorway and Christine slammed the door behind her. They both let loose another bout of laughter and Raoul suddenly seized her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. She laughed into the kiss, wrapping her hands around his wrists. He pulled away and stared into her eyes, and he slowly unwrapped her fingers from each of his wrists so that he may delicately remove her lace gloves. He sighed with contentment as his hands finally felt her skin, soft and delicate.

"I despise them," he whispered, stroking her bare hands, playing them between his fingers as if they were sand. "Your hands are much nicer this way."

"As are yours," she said adoringly.

"So many layers separating me from my Christine," he said. "So much absurdity."

"Absurdity indeed," she huffed impatiently, squirming in the confounded layers of clothing society insisted she wear. She longed for the days where a simple frock was all she needed to romp around the shore, when a simple dress was perfectly acceptable to roam the halls of the Opera. She longed for the days where her hair needn't be twisted and pulled to the point of enormous discomfort, causing her head to permanently ache.

Raoul's hands finally left hers, and he ran his fingertips over the delicate up do that was so carefully constructed by her lady's maid. One by one he pulled each pin out, her curls slipping out of their constraints until it was finally free and the constant aching disappeared. She smiled softly up at him as he ran his fingers through her golden trusses.

"Starting tomorrow, there will be no more of this nonsense," Raoul said. "I will stroke the hair of my Christine, not the hair of the Comtesse. I will hold the hands of my Christine, not the scratchy, gloved hands of the Comtesse."

"And I shall be in the arms of my Raoul," Christine said, bringing her hands up to cup his face in her little hands. "The arms of my little boy from the shore, not the stiff arms of the Comte."

He gently pressed his lips to hers again, his hands still tangled in her mess of curls.

"I beg of you, free me from this death trap," Christine said. "I can hardly breathe."

Raoul chuckled softly, turning his wife around so that he may unbutton her dress. She lifted her arms and allowed him to slip the gaudy garment off her body. They each struggled with the ridiculous cage fitted around her waist, and it was discarded with her dress. He unlaced her corset, and she sighed with relief as the horrid thing left her body, leaving her free to breathe as she pleased. The rest she was able to manage herself, and so she turned around and thanked him with a loving kiss, then made her way over to her wardrobe to slip on her soft cotton nightgown. She made her way to the bed and crawled under the covers. She lounged back and watched her husband adjust himself in the mirror. She pouted slightly.

"What's the matter?" His brow furrowed with worry, and he made his way to her, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her.

"Why must you go back down?" she whined. "Stay here, with me. Come to bed."

"Now, you know I can't do that. Our guests will be offended."

"I know just as well as you that neither of us care about that at all." She sat up and put her hands on his shoulders. "Come to bed."

"I am not so fortunate as you that I can feign a headache and disappear from society. I don't have nearly as much charm as you do to be able to get away with such things."

"Then tell them to leave," Christine insisted. "Tell them your wife is ill and insists that her husband attends to her this very moment. In fact, they can stay there all they want. All you have to do is tell them that you won't be leaving this room."

Raoul shook his head with a chuckle. "You are absurd, Christine."

"Is it absurd to not want to share my husband with the entirety of France?" she said exasperatedly.

"To them, it is absurd. Nearly every one of those women share their husbands with all of France."

"How awful," she shuddered, taking her hands off his shoulders. Her brow furrowed for a moment, deep in thought, before she said: "You would never do such a thing to me, would you?"

"How can you even think such a thing?" Raoul firmly grasped her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. "I have eyes for you only. Forever and ever."

Christine wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest. "Say you love me."

"You know I do." He began stroking her hair.

"I want to hear you say it. Say you love me."

"I love you, Christine. More than the sun, the stars, the moon, the earth itself. More than life."

She chuckled softly, and the air from her nose tickled his neck. She only ever asked him to say "I love you," and without fail he turned it into a poem every time. _Such a little gentleman_. She began nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, peppering his skin with kisses. She felt his breathing deepen and quicken.

"Now, I really must be going."

"But you can't. I won't let you." She started to untie his bowtie, but he took her hands in his.

"You'll have me all to yourself tomorrow, Christine. After we leave this place and get to our little summer house on the shore, it will be just the two of us. No Comte and Comtesse, just Raoul and Christine. Tomorrow."

"Why can't we start now?"

"Because right now I am still Comte de Chagny, and we still have guests." He got up from the bed and returned to the mirror to straighten himself.

"You would leave me here, all alone with a blistering headache?" She melodramatically dropped down onto the pillows, unable to stop the fit of giggles that followed.

"It's just a little while longer. I'll be back before you know it." He went to the door and opened it.

"I don't even get a goodnight kiss?" Christine whined, staring at him from where she lay.

"Christine…" Raoul took a deep breath. Her hair was fanned out on the pillows, her skin was flushed pink with what he knew was not embarrassment, her chest rose and fell gently, her beautifully enticing eyes fluttered. "If I gave you even the smallest kiss right now, I would never be able to leave this room."

Christine gasped, but the gasp quickly melted into hysterical laughter.

"You are a child, Christine."

Though he scolded, she saw his grin, and she heard him laughing. It nearly pained her to watch him walk away right then; she had nearly gotten him to stay. But no matter; starting tomorrow she would have him all to herself for the entire summer. Raoul and Christine: a little sailor boy and his Little Lotte.

* * *

 _I know that, canonically, Raoul and Christine gave up the lavish lifestyle. (I believe Leroux claims he heard of them living in a little house somewhere years after the event, please burn me at the stake if I'm wrong about that one.) But I just couldn't resist the idea of Christine having to endure balls and overzealous society women, and Raoul having to rescue her from it, and the two of them getting away from it all with a vacation to the shore. The idea of separating "Comte" from "Raoul" and "Comtesse" from "Christine" as if they were separate entities is something I've always played around with in my head. Frankly, that's exactly how I see them putting up with it all. They're just a couple of kids trying to live up to society's expectations of what they *should* be. Well, I guess there's a reason they gave up this lifestyle in canon._

 _Alright, enough preaching about R/C. Please review if you enjoyed! Thank so much!_


End file.
